Upon a dish my lord the number told;
Clod no way liked the garlic to behold.
With piteous mien the garlic head he took,
Then on it num'rous ways was led to look,
And, grumbling much, began to spit and eat,
Just like a cat with mustard on her meat;
To touch it with his tongue he durst not do.
He knew not how to act or what pursue.
The peer, delighted at the man's distress,
The garlic made him bite, and chew, and press,
Then gulp it down as if delicious fare.
The first he passed; the second made him swear;
The third he found was every whit as sad.

He wished the devil had it, 'twas so bad.

In short, when at the twelfth our wight arrived,
He thought his mouth and throat of skin deprived.
Said he, "Some drink I earnestly entreat!
"What, Greg'ry," cried my lord, "dost feel a heat?
In thy repasts dost love to wet thy jaws?

Well! well! I won't object; thou know'st my laws.
Much good may't do thee. Here, some wine, some wine!
Yet recollect, to drink, since you design,

That afterward, my friend, you'll have to choose

The thirty blows, or thirty pounds to lose."
"But," cried the peasant, "I sincerely pray

Your lordship's goodness, that the garlic may
Be taken in the account, for as to pelf,
Where can an humble lab'rer, like myself,
Expect the sum of thirty pounds to seize?"
"Then," said the peer, "be cudgeled if you please.
Take thirty thwacks; for naught the garlic goes."
To moisten well his throat, and ease his woes,

The peasant drank a copious draft of wine,
And then to bear the cudgel would resign.

A single blow he patiently endured;

The second, howsoe'er, his patience cured;
The third was more severe, and each was worse.
The punishment he now began to curse.
Two lusty wights, with cudgels thrashed his back,
And regularly gave him thwack and thwack.

He cried, he roared, for grace he begged his lord,
Who marked each blow, and would no ease accord;
But carefully observed, from time to time,
That lenity he always thought sublime;
His gravity preserved; considered too

The blows received and what continued due.

At length, when Greg'ry twenty strokes had got,
He piteously exclaimed, "If more's my lot

I never shall survive! Oh! pray forgive,

If you desire, my lord, that I should live."

"Then down with thirty pounds," replied the peer. "Since you the blows so much pretend to fear, I'm sorry for you; but if all the gold

Be not prepared, your godfather, I'm told,

Can lend a part. Yet, since so far you've been,
To flinch the rest you surely won't be seen."

The wretched peasant to his lordship flew,

And trembling, cried, ""Tis up! The number view!"

A scrutiny was made, which nothing gained;

No choice but pay the money now remained.

This grieved him much, and o'er the fellow's face,
The dewy drops were seen to flow apace.

All useless proved. The full demand he sent,
With which the peer expressed himself content.
Unlucky he whoe'er his lord offends!

To golden ore, howe'er, the proud man bends.

'Twas vain that Gregorgy a pardon prayed.
For trivial faults the peasant dearly paid:
His throat inflamed-his tender back well beat-
His money gone-and all to make complete,
Without the least deduction for the pain,
The blows and garlic gave the trembling swain.

"Tales."

Philippe Quinault

Two Imaginative Innkeepers

CARPALIN, COURCAILLET, and Cléandre.

Carp. Would you drink of the best, sir, step in here. We are not wanting for strong wine of Orleans, Malmsey, Burgundy, and exquisite cordials from the valleys of the Rhone.

Cour. Sir, here you can drink, too, the wine of Malaga and Contepordrix, and Muscatelle sweeter than nectar.

Carp. Yes, he has drafts for you, no doubt, wine of Nanterre and wine of Argenteuil. Lean cat that he is, he'll treat you well-with vinegar.

Cour. It's better than yours.

Carp. Keeper of a mere cook-shop you are; an adulterer of wine who spoils the trade.

Cour. Oh, you frying-pan hero!

Carp. Insolent slave!

Cour. Sir, come to my inn. That fellow is a sharper.

Carp. If you don't get away from here I'll smash your

snout.

Cléan. Gentlemen, keep peace.

Carp. You come in here, or I'll sweep the ground with you.

Cléan. You do not please me with your importunities. You have already torn my coat in several places.

Carp. If I get a stick

(Exit COURCAILLET.)

Cléan. Well, but don't make so much ado. The people on the street are watching the fuss. I'll go in here.

Carp. Now, sir, you are talking sensibly. It is undoubtedly at the "Black Head" that fashionable people stop to drink.

Cléan. I care little for wine. Have you anything to eat? Carp. Assuredly. We furnish the most delectable delicacies, seen only on the best tables-dishes exquisitely made and well spiced.

Cléan. Well, one of these I should like.

Carp. Pigeons on toast and partridges in pies, with herbs and spices, marrow, and roasts of beef crowned with citron and jelly.

Cléan. Enough, enough!

Carp. We know how to make dainty dishes of veal in a royal manner, pigeons and chickens

Cléan. But I want only one dish!

Carp. You can have four. It's only a matter of cost. You'll be as well served here as in the best inn in France. To the soups I give a flavor, I tell you-I have skilful hands enough, thank Heaven!

Cléan. You have some smaller dish to begin on?

Carp. Of course! We have tongues of beef, hashed chickens with white sauce, sheep's feet with ham, and minced meat with crusts. Then, for the middle of the dinner, come capons and hens, pheasants and turtle-doves, woodcocks and partridges, ducks and plovers, teals and thrushes, snipes, curlews, wild ducks, peewits————

Cléan. Oh, my dear host, stop, stop, I beseech you!

Carp. In a word, in this inn nothing is lacking. Fruit would you have? The orchards of Touraine have yielded their wealth to me. Do you wish to dispense with meat for